What's the Damage?
by SkyeMoor
Summary: Harry Potter is an Auror. That's not surprising. What's endlessly surprising to Draco Malfoy is that Potter has actually managed to be a Man on the Force, not a Mascot or a Rising Star. Ordinary Joe Auror. NOTE: This deals with PTSD. Reality bites, triggers be damned.


Harry Potter was having a Very Bad Day.

Every day that he had to deal with Draco Malfoy was a bad day, as far as he was concerned.

Always had been, always would be.

As an Auror, though, he was only called in when things went sideways.

Things went sideways an awful lot around one Draco Malfoy, though.

His Auror team had started ducking Malfoy assignments within the first _month_.

By the third, they would just pass them to Potter, and, if questioned (and Harry always questioned), they'd simply say, "You've got more experience with walking nightmares than we do." And Harry did, truth be told. Didn't mean they weren't still stupid little shites for running away from duty.

So, no, Harry was not having a good day.

It got worse when he walked into the apothecary.

Just what he wanted to see on a Friday Morning. Wailing parents, of a beautiful, sun-gold blonde daughter. Not that he could see more than the tanned leg of said daughter (her cornflower-blue dress being tossed up enough to see calf and neat white sock).

They hadn't seen him yet, and Harry very badly wanted to just cast a disillusionment charm.

Malfoy needed to be dealt with, after all, and every second was a risk.

Harry didn't really have time for all the showboating that people generally wanted to ensure he did as Harry Potter, Auror On The Force.

Luckily, these days, he carried a tin for that. Magical Merlin's Pomade, the sort that would slick down even his hair. As an Auror, he had a tan - that he scrupulously scrubbed away whenever a photographer was nearby. They knew the score. Auror Potter and Boy-Who-Lived were to be treated as separate people, on pain of Losing The Story (and all Future Stories). They'd been good - although it probably helped that Wizarding Britain had one newspaper. Freezing that one out, would mean it would have nothing to write on its Boy-Who-Lived page.

Here, he decided to just walk by, as quickly as possible. Grieving parents tended to be stationary things, until the shock wore off and the anger set in.

Harry didn't even know if the girl was dead or not, yet. If someone else was with him, he'd have sent them to check on her. The last eight times this had happened, it had been to shites who deserved to be klopped on the chin. People who'd been trying to start a fight, and got something they hadn't bargained for. His team had grown soft, and Harry would have word with them when he got back.

Harry cast a few wandless, wordless protection charms, as he danced by the parents.

"Malfoy," Harry said, quietly. No response - exactly as expected. "Earth to Malfoy, where are you?"

"No, Please," Draco Malfoy said, his normally steady voice breaking under the strain.

"Draco. Draco Malfoy, you're gonna be okay."

"She says that," Draco Malfoy said, in a voice that a toddler might use, "and then out comes her wand."

"You're safe now," Harry insisted, knowing it was unlikely to work.

Draco screams, and Harry's only lucky that he doesn't break the glassware. It's a scream Harry remembers well - the sound of Malfoy under the Cruciatus Curse.

The sound fades, and in the onrushing quiet, is only Draco's hopeless whimper, "Never gonna be safe again."

"She's gone, she's _dead_," Harry says firmly, trying to will Draco into believing it - it hasn't worked before...

This time, unbelievably, it starts to...

"Where am I?" Draco asks, and Harry remembers that this isn't a familiar place.

"Diagon Alley, a store that sells potions ingredients."

Draco Malfoy's wand is out, and it's shaking.

"Take my arm," Harry Potter says.

Draco's next question is a whisper, "Why?" the mistrust leaking through.

"Just pretend we're friends." Harry Potter whispers back. The Slytherin-ness of the scheme seems to make more sense in Malfoy's mind. Draco Malfoy grabs onto Harry's upper arm, clinging as if it's a lifeline. Harry continues, the litany endless, "You're going to be okay."

Draco Malfoy's eyes look more lucid, though no less stormy, no less looking into the abyss. They remind Harry of Snape's, at the instant that he killed Dumbledore, "Never going to be okay, again."

Harry Potter doesn't want to admit that Malfoy's right. There's a core of stubbornness in Harry that gibbers at the thought of admitting that Draco's right. There's always a solution, always a better way.

That's the thing, though, Harry _knows_. He already knows the way to get Malfoy help. _Maybe this time, he'll have the balls to suggest it..._

"You're in Diagon Alley, and Bellatrix Black is dead. Voldemort is dead." Harry almost changes expression, at the flinch he gets from Malfoy - it means that he's coming to.

Blinking, Draco's real eyes look back at Harry, as he smirks (and Harry can tell, he's smirking through the pain, the discomfort of losing control), "What's the damage?"

Harry braces himself before speaking, "A young girl," he says, at last. "An accident, so far as anyone can tell."

"It's always an accident," Draco Malfoy says, his eyes shadowed. Harry doesn't ask _because he doesn't want to know_ how many little girls, in the war-.

Harry knows it's the truth, or Malfoy would be in Azkaban already. "We need to get you some help."

Draco smirks, crossing his arms, " 'We' do? You and the rest of the Force? Or you and your Mudblood friend?"

Harry crosses his arms, turning away from Draco's gaze, "Make this easy on everyone. Just you and me."

Draco crosses his arms, leaning against a cabinet full of expensive ingredients, "I'm listening."

Harry knows that's the best he's gonna get.

[a/n: the girl's fine, by the way, just knocked out. Her parents are going into histrionics, but that's normal when your five year old gets accosted by a grown man's Out-Of-Control magic. Reviews welcome and appreciated!]


End file.
